


his heart, which seeks a fairy tale ending

by straylize



Series: A little bit of inertia [4]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Gen, Minor Violence, Pining, Pre-Canon, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), also featuring tiny baby claude, also mostly just explaining how claude was drawn to him, mostly implied dmcl, mostly me waxing poetic about worldbuilding once again, something something fairy tales and fables, verdant moon au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:21:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29739360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straylize/pseuds/straylize
Summary: It started with with a faint wish and an idealized fairy tale. It all fell away, because the world is harsh and cruel—yet even still, Claude's heart has a yearning, a warmth that rekindles easily when hope exists in the form of a dashing prince.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Series: A little bit of inertia [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885978
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	his heart, which seeks a fairy tale ending

_“Once upon a time in the great, Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, there lived a prince,”_ The boy read aloud from the book that lay in his lap. Or perhaps it was better to say he was reciting the memorized words of the tale that his young eyes couldn’t quite read yet in their entirety. His performance was for an audience of just one—the white wyvern curled beneath the lightly swinging hammock.

It was a common sight; the boy with his sole winged friend nearby. They often spent time by that hammock, situated under a garden canopy that perfectly shaded them from the scorching summer sun. He often recited stories or made up his own, allowing his imagination to run wild in the absence of company. Yet still, he was joyful; his energy was as boundless as his creativity. At just five years old, he hadn’t yet encountered the dangers of the world, or knew of how dark a person’s heart could be, for even the pettiest of reasons. Villains existed only in the fairy tales, to be defeated by princes, princesses, and knights—they were certainly not reality.

_“The prince was a de-sendend of Loog, the King of Lions,”_ He recited the next line of the fairy tale, doing his best to say the words that he didn’t quite understand yet. _“He was noble and just, wanting to protect all the people of Faerghus so they could live happily.”_

The boy paused for a moment as he allowed his gaze to shift to the illustration on the page. He had seen it as many times as the tale had been told to him, but even still, it captured his attention each and every time he saw it. 

The prince of the tale was very handsome, after all. He appeared tall and slender, with skin as fair as the snow Faerghus was famed for. His hair a bright, golden blonde that was unlike anything the boy had ever seen in real people, and his eyes a piercing shade of blue. Though a prince, he was armored as a knight would be, and he bore a lance—a weapon of legend in Faerghus known as Areadbhar. The boy recalled asking of the lance, to which his mother explained it was one of the famed Heroes’ Relics of Fódlan, though offered little else to explain what that truly meant.

The boy assumed, of course, that a prince of legend, that of a fairy tale, would indeed wield a weapon of equal mysticism. To that boy, the weapon was hardly the most striking aspect, however. It was the prince himself. Though one could argue that his mother was of similar complexion, with striking green eyes all her own, he had never seen anything like the princes of Faerghan fairy tales. To him, it appeared as something that could only ever be in a book…. Though that also made it all the more enticing to his curious young mind.

_“Even though there was no war,”_ The boy continued on, words recited before even turning the page. _“He defended Faerghus from every threat. If a wyvern attacked a village, the prince would tame it. If an Adrestian soldier crossed their border, he would fight val-i-ant-ly. There was nothing the prince wouldn’t do in order to protect—”_

“Reading that old fairy tale again, kiddo?” The sound of a familiar voice reverberated in the air and pulled the boy’s attention from the pages of the book.

“Nader!” His face brightened at the sight of a familiar face; he set the book down before he leapt off the hammock. “Are we training today?”

He looked up, head tilted in a quizzical manner. The burly man whose reputation preceded him as Almyra’s greatest general only shook his head and offered a laugh. As he properly answered the question, he scooped the boy up and placed him atop his broad shoulders—much to the boy’s delight. “Not today. I just stopped by to talk to your Dad about some things.”

“Oh. Does that mean you won another fight?”

“They don’t call me ‘The Undefeated’ for nothing, you know!” He boasted, though it was a bit of a lie by way of omission; truthfully, their numbers had retreated after their intel gave word that the Hero of Daphnel intended to take the front lines. It was a strategic move, given that they’d only been skirmishing on the outskirts of the fortress known to all as Fódlan’s Locket; he didn’t see it as a reason to take up arms with that firecracker. “But enough about that! I think I just caught in the act of reading that old story again instead of practicing your sword stance.”

Nader didn’t truly mind; despite the way they prided themselves on their battle prowess, he was still a child. They needed to have their fun too, and given how often the boy was alone, it was no surprise that he had a tendency to be less disciplined. It wasn’t as if he could be mad as he felt the boy’s small hands hold onto him for stability, nor as he peered over Nader’s shoulder to look at how far the ground was from that height.

“Mm… maybe.” He responded, though there was little way he could deny that Nader caught him in the act that time.

“ _Maybe_ if you spent more time on your training than reading the same stories, your sword stance would be a little better,” Nader said playfully, though an air of truth remained in his words. The boy had good form with bows and axes, but his sword form was atrocious—and the boy’s father never let Nader forget that fact. “If you’re going to slack off, you could read some other stories too, kiddo.”

“But the other stories aren’t as good!” The boy protested.

“No? Almyran fairy tales are full of princes fighting noble battles for the sake of our people, though,” Nader did his best to appeal to the boy’s tastes as he led them away from the canopy and toward the door nearest to them. The boy’s wyvern friend stretched his wings before electing to take flight, with sights set on the balcony of the boy’s sleeping quarters. 

“But it’s not the same!” The protests continued. “All the princes in the Almyran stories are just about great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandpop! Everyone always tells those stories!”

As far as the boy was concerned, there wasn’t much appeal in tales based on his own lineage. All of the princes just looked like the extended family, they wielded the same weapons and fought in the same manner. Almyrans were always fighting. Fighting each other, fighting the people from Fódlan, fighting anyone who gave them a chance to do so. The boy didn’t care for stories of _war_. He enjoyed the stories of chivalry, of using the power of royalty and armies to make the world a little better. He wanted to see the tales of helping those in need.

Those stories were fun. Exciting. They made him want to be _that kind_ of prince. 

“What about the other stories from your Mom’s books?” Nader was more than aware, after all, that many of the stories she told were from her native land in Fódlan. Though Tiana von Riegan had long abandoned her life and title, she wanted to ensure her son knew of his heritage—all of it, not just the parts of it he would see on a day-to-day basis.

But the boy scrunched his nose in response.

“Stories from Adrestia are always about nobles drinking tea and riding horses,” _Boring!_ “And Leicester ones are the _worst_! They’re just about grumpy old men yelling at each other around a table!”

Though he tried, Nader failed to stifle his laughter. He had to hand it to the kid—he knew exactly what he liked and didn’t like. Even if he couldn’t quite understand the appeal himself, it wasn’t his place to dissuade the boy—regardless of how many questions it raised. He had to wonder what a five-year-old saw in those stories, though he supposed all the same that it was a phase he’d grow out of once he grew to be a little older and understood their world a bit better.

“Okay, okay! You win, kiddo. Just remember—you’re an Almyran prince, not a Faerghan one.”

“I knoooow…” It wasn’t as if the boy needed to be reminded. He was all too aware of his own lineage, and for all that he enjoyed reading those tales, he didn’t have any expectations of them. They were just stories, after all.

The boy hadn’t yet realized that he didn’t love those stories because he desired to be like a Faerghan prince. He did so, because wanted to be spirited away by one.

_“—to protect… every last Faerghan. To keep… them safe, from harm…”_

The boy’s voice was small, weak as he recited the familiar tale to himself. He was alone, confined to his bed, without even his wyvern friend to keep him company. Two weeks earlier, the boy had an experience like no other—an attempt on his life.

He was still young, innocent. At the age of six, he still only watched his father in awe as he led their fair nation. He heard the tales of Almyran kings in past eras. He enjoyed the tales of princes in faraway lands. His parents spoiled him lovingly, and protected him from the would-be threats that the world had to offer. He’d been too sheltered to know that the world beyond the palace walls was nothing like that of the fairy tales. Especially not for a prince who was of mixed heritage.

The boy had never been made aware of how many people hated him for existing. He had been unaware of the whispers that someone who had Fódlan blood coursing through their veins was unfit to ascend the throne. He was unaware that for many, he was a threat to the purity of their leadership. He certainly had no understanding that there were those who shared blood—by way of elder-half siblings—who resented him for being in line for the throne. People wished him dead because he was an obstacle. For the entirety of those six years, he had been ignorant to that fact.

Until the attempt on his life, that was.

He had been sleeping peacefully beneath the silken sheets of his bed, unaware of the threat that had loomed. An assassin with the deadliest intent, hired by one who wished to see the crown prince perish in order for their own kin to have a chance at the throne. Paid a generous amount of gold—the nameless assassin was more than willing to take the risk of his own life for the cause. Money always did talk, after all, but the assassin also believed wholly in the cause of eliminating a prince who wasn’t fully of Almyran descent. He’d made quick work of slipping past palace security until he arrived at the quarters of the young prince—blissful in both his sleep as well as the ignorance to the horrors of the world beyond the palace walls.

The plan had been to make quick work of it. He was just a child; helpless and hapless. Likely, he’d not even have a chance to even react—a quick slice across the neck with a finely serrated venin dagger would end the boy’s life quickly. Even were the assassin to miss his mark, the poison in the blade would course through his veins, and agonize him until he breathed his very last.

That should have been the plan, at least. But the boy was sharp, sharper than any assassin could have been prepared for. Roused from his deep sleep at the unsettling sensation of someone looming over him, he didn’t hesitate to release an ear-piercing shriek; he’d managed to catch the experienced assassin off guard in how sudden and shrill the sound was—just barely enough of an opening for the boy to attempt an escape. That escape, however, couldn’t be made cleanly. As the boy attempted to leap from his bed, the assassin made his own attempt to finish the job he’d started. He couldn’t make the mark of slitting the boy’s throat, but he dragged the blade downward as the boy attempted to slip past, creating a small, but deep slice in the gap between his left shoulder and his collarbone before he slipped back into the darkness. The likelihood a child of that stature could survive that much venin had been so unlikely, he saw the job as being as good as complete.

The searing pain, however, was the last thing the boy remembered for a long while. He lost consciousness just moments later as the poison crept into his veins. He hadn’t been conscious for his personal guard having found him, for the palace mages and medics who had hollowed out the wound and fought desperately to preserve his life. It was nearly two weeks before he’d opened his eyes, and when he did, he felt no better. His body was weak from disuse, sore from the traces of venom that had attacked his body and in agony where the wound had been. He was alone, with only the sound of murmuring from the other side of the door to let him know that anyone was near.

The boy couldn’t clearly make out what was being said, only that the voices were familiar—that of his parents.

“...lly just…alone…that?” His mother’s voice was surprisingly delicate, a stark contrast to her often bold and goading, temperamental way of speaking.

His father, too, sounded far more gentle than the boy was accustomed to, though he could still make out his fierce determination, even though he couldn’t parse all of the words being spoken. “We have…on…his own… attempt, we… stop… coddling…else he won’t...own good.”

What they said didn’t matter. The boy didn’t care much to figure it out, either. All he knew was that every inch of his body ached, perhaps his heart most of all. And that was why, he broke the silence of the room by reciting a familiar tale, one that he didn’t need any book open in order to recall.

_“One day… the prince set out into… the bitter cold upon his steed. He had… been given word that there was an intruder in their lands. Seeking to inves...tigate… he left the walls of Fhirdiad.”_

He recited through his pain. He pushed back any tears that stung at his eyes; much as he wanted to cry, he couldn’t. Nobody had told him otherwise, but from what little he could glean of his parents’ conversation, there’d be no benefit to his tears. The experience, however hazy it may have been, was a harsh dose of reality, one that taught the boy that things were not always as bright as he’d once thought. It would take weeks of recovery, and months, _years,_ even, of making an effort to shape what he needed to be in order to protect himself and prevent a situation where he was in that sort of danger from happening again.

That first meant he would have to fight through his pain and his tears. That he would have to be a little stronger. Though he had to pause more than once in order to recite his story clearly, he pushed forward with his own muted determination.

_“As he approached...the Leicester border… he saw a figure… collapsed in the snow. The prince picked up speed, heedless… of friend or foe… the figure in the snow was a young man… of similar age to him._

_‘Do you need help?’ The prince asked…. As he dismounted his noble steed._

_The young man… looked up at him… with desperate eyes. He was bruised… and battered… lips as blue as the Faerghan flag. He could only… nod his head, too cold to speak._

_‘Then take my hand, I’ll lead you to safety,’ said the prince… he held out his own hand. He could not be sure… if the young man could be trusted… but still, he could not… leave the young man to meet his end, alone… in the frigid air of his land…”_

The boy exhaled unevenly; though some of that had been due to the pain and discomfort his wounds brought, much of it amounted to far more than that. The story he recited had always been his favorite; his mother had read it to him so many times that he memorized it. He’d used it to learn to read. He knew every word, etched into his memory, even though his young mind _still_ didn’t know the meaning to every word on each page.

For him, that story had begun to take on a new meaning. As he recalled the prince’s exploits and how he saved the young man, how he was brave and noble and helped the person who needed him most. That young man had been given a second chance and the greatest sort of kindness. It was a contrast—a stark one, to the boy who also faced certain death, but lived on in a dark room, with not a single person waiting at his side to promise him reprieve.

He wouldn’t cry, he had told himself. But that hadn’t stopped the boy from squeezing his eyes shut, nor had it stopped him from asking a single question in the smallest, yet most desperate voice. 

“When will the prince come and take _my_ hand?” When would he be led to safety? When would someone make sure he wasn’t alone to meet _his_ end?

For the first time, he was acutely aware of how unrealistic fairy tales were. He was a prince himself, after all. There would be no prince to come to his rescue, even in the most trying of times. To rescue him from the villains of the world, the ones he once believed were only in the prince’s tales.

(Yet still, he hoped. Yet still, etched into his heart, he wanted to be saved by the prince and spirited away from his own life.)

_“The prince had led the mysterious stranger to the safety of the capital. The young man was saved from a certain death, but when dawn arrived, he realized his savior was nowhere to be found. He was unaware that his savior was the land’s beloved prince. Briefly, he considered a return to his side of the border, but he could not let well enough alone. At the very least, he needed to find the one who saved his life, to thank him for his kindness.”_

The boy had grown into a fine young man. Now 16-years-old, he had learned many lessons about the world. 

Independence had come to him quickly following the recovery from his injuries. The youthful innocence of fairy tales gave way to cautioned pragmatism. It was traps under windows. It was sleeping with a dagger beneath his pillow. It was bribing a back-alley apothecary into teaching him how to brew non-lethal poisons. It was endless training to evade and suppress those who target him, and it was the way he learned to evade even letting anyone know what he truly thought or felt. He was a prince, but he was also a schemer, a troublemaker, and one very few actually placed their trust in.

There were cracks on his heart. Ten years of falsified smiles, of playing nice while others wished the worst upon him solely for being born. A decade of confiding in his sole friend—that one white wyvern that always remained by his side as they grew up together. Truly, it was exhausting. He’d gone from a hopeful young boy to a young man who was already so tired. He wanted the world to be a better place, one where he could live without those worries. All the same, parts of him had grown embittered, cynical of the intentions of those who surrounded him. It was paradoxical at times, placing the faintest fractures on his heart, once that created a void that he didn’t know how to fill.

It couldn’t be overstated how tired he was.. It was an exhausting life to lead, one where he always had to look over his shoulder to ensure that nobody would stab him in the back. One where he couldn’t seem to find a solution to the biggest problem of all—can an Almyran prince one day rule the land and garner respect when half his blood was that of the reviled Fódlan that they were constantly at odds with? He wasn’t sure.

But when the young man saw an opportunity to run, to escape the constant ridicule and threats to his life, he knew he had to take it.

“...If you don’t want to go, why not let me go in your stead? Line of succession says you’d be the next Duchess, right? So… you could just abdicate it and then I’d be rightfully the successor.”

It was a ridiculous idea, the boy knew. The situation surrounding House Riegan was complicated—perhaps even more than he knew for himself. Oswald von Riegan, was not only head of the house, but the current leader of the Alliance—though his health was ailing in his old age. When his son, Godfrey had fallen in what had been called an accident, it left the line of succession in disarray. The young man’s mother was known to those in the Leicester Alliance as Tiana von Riegan, Oswald’s second child, who had gone missing many years back. None were aware that she had fled the country to wed the one she loved—who just so happened to be king of a rival nation. Unaware of her location, the Alliance roundtable had begun to plan for who would be next to lead the Alliance.

It was all quite suspicious, not just to those who heard the story from the outside, but even to many within the Alliance. Some believed it was truly an unfortunate accident, while others believed it to be an underhanded scheme to usurp House Riegan from Alliance leadership. House Gloucester wished to rise the ranks, though the name most commonly spoken of to succeed leadership appeared to be House Goneril. For those who didn’t see the righteousness in that methodology, there was an oft-whispered plan to locate the missing daughter of House Riegan.

One cunning woman, and old friend—known to all in Fódlan as the Hero of Daphnel, had done just that. But when Tiana received that letter of request, one to return to House Riegan and succeed the family line—she refused, and quite incredulously so, at that. She’d left her home many years ago in pursuit of her own freedom and her love; she had no desire to give that up, even if perhaps, it would be an easier life than being the Fódlan-born wife of the Almyran king.

The entire situation was complicated—but there was an opportunity that seemed to await the young man. Though Tiana had her doubts as the two discussed the topic over a light meal. Her brow arched at him, skeptical, and perhaps mildly annoyed at how her son always found some way to make trouble where there was previously none.

“This isn’t a game, Khalid. If you think you’re just going to pack up and leave so you can lead _another_ country—should I be the one to set you straight, or should your father?” It sounded like a thinly veiled threat, but the young man—Prince Khalid—only laughed in response.

“Like you’re one to talk, Mom. Remind me again how you became Almyra’s queen consort again?” The look in his eyes was as sharp as his tongue—but he was right. Tiana was more than aware that she had done the very same, and never once looked back in regret at her choices. For a brief moment, her expression softened in amusement—this boy certainly had taken after her in perhaps some of the most frustrating of ways. 

“I’m serious. Your father won’t take well to the notion of you shirking duties here. Much as he may not want to say it, with the situation being as it is—but he has high hopes that you will be the one succeeding the throne.”

It was another complicated situation—ascending the Almyran throne wasn’t so simple as abdication or death. There were far too many factors involved, and Khalid himself knew that many hopes were being placed on him for the future of their fair nation. Despite that, he shook his head, as if to wave off the concern—and likely, the wrath—that came along with it. “Aren’t you and Dad always going on about how I need to be able to take care of myself? Seems to me like this would be a great way to prove that I’ve done exactly what you both wanted. Besides, I’m not abandoning Almyra. I wouldn’t do that.”

Despite his words, though, he wanted to run away. He wanted to take a break. He wanted to see the world beyond the capital, beyond Almyra’s borders. To learn of the other half of his heritage and more of Fódlan’s people by seeing it for himself. If for just a while, perhaps he could belong somewhere—

“Leading the Alliance isn’t something you can just hand off once you feel bored with it. How do you intend to do that _and_ perform your duties here?” Tiana cut his thoughts short, her questions sharp and pointed. Though she managed to rein in her temper, there was little doubting that she’d flare at least a few times before this was all over. He was aware of that fact, of course, and was prepared to combat it in what ways he could. 

“Look, the whole crux of the issue is that something shady’s going on there, right? It’s pretty fishy, from what I’m seeing. So I help stabilize things and find who’s _actually_ best suited to become the next leader. And, you know, root out our shadowy friends.”

It was a cautious appeal. Though it would take far more than that to convince his father that it was a good idea—he could still win over Tiana. This did tie to her family, after all. Even if she had been content to leave them behind in pursuit of her own freedoms, she didn’t wish ill on them, especially not in the struggle for power. She just had never wanted to be part of that power struggle herself.

And truthfully, she didn’t want her son to be, either. But the power struggles of the Alliance were likely far less dangerous than what he was up against in Almyra. She could hardly deny that it could perhaps be a primer for him, a way for her son to experience the responsibility and prepare himself for the future—so that he could pursue whatever dreams went alongside them. He’d always been sharp and quick-witted, and he’d always shown a great interest in policy and how to one day rule Almyra. Khalid butted heads with his father quite often, but only with the best of intentions.

Well—when he wasn’t causing a ruckus and giving his own siblings food poisoning during court events. It was with a sigh—exasperated, annoyed, but ultimately endeared—that Tiana conceded.

“ _If_ you can convince your father, there will be many, many, _many_ conditions.”

Conditions didn’t matter, though. He would adhere to what they asked of him. What mattered? What mattered to that young man was that he could finally seek so many of the things he was looking for. And for, perhaps a while, he could _breathe_ without an endless threat looming over him.

_“His determination was all he had to carry him through. He journeyed, pressing forward. His mind thought only of finding that savior of his. Even with memories blurry, he could recall a piercing blue gaze that was icy in color, but warm in feeling. He looked as if he could be a snow prince, ethereal. The young man supposed that the reality would be different, but he held to the image from that frigid night as he set one foot in front of the other. He could find that snow prince, and he wouldn’t return to his homeland until he could repay the debt he felt was owed.”_

The way things changed had been so rapid that the young man could hardly keep up with things himself. The decision to leave Almyra came with a set of conditions that he had to be mindful of. The first was to not reveal the details of his lineage. Those in the Leicester Alliance couldn’t be made aware of his status of foreign nation’s prince; Tiana herself preferred that as few people as possible knew of their direct connection and her whereabouts, as well.

Of course, there was no hiding it from the current Duke Riegan, who had easily been able to see the resemblance to his own, long-missing daughter. The resemblance and the proven existence of a Crest had all but assured that the young man was a rightful heir. It took both the Duke and the Hero of Daphnel to vouch for the veracity of the claims before other Alliance leaders were to be appeased, though they settled somewhat soon after, upon the confirmation that there was still a Riegan to hold the title of duke.

Much else changed. Upon his arrival, the young man took up an alias—a means of protecting his identity as their neighboring nation’s prince, as well as to blend in with those of Fódlan. Khalid was a distinctly Almyran name, one not likely to be given to the Riegan heir. Instead, he took on a far more common name throughout the continent. _Claude_. From the point he crossed Almyra’s borders, he was no longer Prince Khalid, but Claude von Riegan. It was something he lamented somewhat as he adjusted to his new identity, but one that proved quickly to be the right decision to make.

Those in Fódlan didn’t take well to Almyrans, he soon learned. While Almyrans viewed natives of Fódlan as cowards, the people of Fódlan likewise viewed Almyrans as battle-hungry savages. Most had no idea of the world beyond their own borders, only experienced in hearsay and anecdotal tales. They knew nothing of the people that lived in Almyra—not of their character, their culture, nor their beliefs. Constant border skirmishes at Fódlan’s Locket, captured refugees from past wars on Almyran territory, and a general lack of understanding for anything beyond their borders left the people just as ignorant as in his own land.

There was no winning, he soon realized. The people of Fódlan were no different; and he had been left to wonder if it was just the human condition. Those who stay trapped inside of their own worlds were doomed to never understand each other. Even though they faced similar hardships and feelings, even though both sides were equally human—they found ways to dehumanize each other from the confines of their own walls.

And the young man—Khalid, Claude—found himself trapped in the faintest gap between both of those worlds. There was nowhere else to run—and that meant he needed to find a way to face his circumstances head-on. He had promises to keep, and a role to grow into as a leader and perhaps, that would be the way to break open such closed off worlds; to find understanding where none previously existed. 

...To create a place where he could exist, where he could _live_ without the stigma attached to his existence. Though none seemed to suspect his origins in Almyra, plenty were suspect of his upbringing and where he was for sixteen years before coming to Derdriu. In Almyra, he was still reviled by many for his Fódlan blood.

_“The young man’s journey was fruitless. The paths through Faerghus were cold and snow-covered, and he was aware that it was only a matter of time before he’d succumb to the elements. He would likely end up repeating his mistakes if he continued to follow the same path—and without a mysterious stranger’s help._

_He had no intention of giving up his ambitious, if unconventional goals. But the Faerghan winter was too much for his weary bones, so the young man took a detour further south, to a place of worship and refuge, all the while wondering when he’d encounter the princely knight he sought.”_

The notion of fairy tales lived on as a fond memory. For Claude, who sought to better both Fódlan and his own homeland of Almyra, he couldn’t rely on them to achieve his goals. In truth, he hadn’t yet even discovered a way to unseal the lid on the jar known as Fódlan, or how to open the minds of his fellow countrymen. Time, experience—those things would likely bring him answers.

And that was why he jumped at any opportunity that could aid in that cause. A close advisor of the Duke’s had made a suggestion—that as the Riegan heir, he enroll at the Garreg Mach Officers Academy for one year. It was considered tradition—something not only Claude’s own mother had done at that age, but was traditional for many of the Round Table’s leaders, as well as the leaders of Fódlan’s other nations. Past Adrestian emperors and Faerghan royalty both had attended the prestigious academy and relied on the Church’s guidance to aid in guiding their futures.

It proved interesting to Claude for more than one reason. In the time he’d spend in the Alliance, he had taken a great deal of time to learn the history of the nation, to understand the political histories and tensions between the nations, and the details of their faith in the goddess, Sothis. The Church of Seiros had an intense hold over the continent, and he knew that he would have to be well educated in every respect in order to lead others to a brighter future.

But his time with his nose in books had shown him that there were oddities. Discrepancies. A mystifying number of things that seemed to be revised or incongruent. And of course, just as many questions as to the history of Crests and the famed Heroes’ Relics. For someone who didn’t follow their belief system, it seemed impossible for those words to be taken as universal truths.

And perhaps those answers would lead him toward everything he sought, for the future.

For a better life.

For a life less lonely, where he wasn’t standing between the barrier of two borders, waiting for just one person to accept him for who he was, unconditionally.

And though fairy tales were nothing more than fond memories at that point, when he packed his belongings in preparation to begin his student life at the Officers Academy, among the many books about history and politics remained one book—a storybook from Faerghus. The binding was coming undone, the pages crinkled, worn; some ink even distorted from having been wet at some point. The boy who once believed so deeply in fairy tales may have lived subconscious, somewhere within that young man’s heart, waiting for that prince—hoping that one would come along to aid him in his journey.

_“The long winter finally came to an end. It was not due to the change in seasons, but due to the circumstances the young man faced upon bringing his journey to a temporary halt. Through the harsh conditions of the Faerghan winter and then through the Oghma Mountains, he found himself at the gates of the famed Garreg Mach Monastery. He was welcomed in by the clergy, offered a place to rest his head and a hearty meal.”_

There was hardly any denying that the monastery was a place of great beauty and history. Even one who didn’t have an incredible grasp on the details of the architecture or the specific details of the compound’s history could easily see as much. That was what Claude thought as he was given a tour of the grounds by one of the professors of the Officers Academy.

“My, we really are in for quite a treat this year,” the man, who had earlier introduced himself as Professor Hanneman, appeared to be a curious sort. In his long coat and scarf, with a prominent moustache and monocle—it was very easy to get the impression he was an Adrestian of high standing. Or perhaps he was at one point; it wasn’t as if he could presume to know the details. From what Claude had learned, his style of dress and general decorum seemed to fall in line with those of the Adrestian people. He appeared kind, if not a bit eccentric; beyond his surprise to only just learn of someone else bearing the Crest of Riegan, his questions hardly seemed invasive. Instead, it seemed he planned to focus on acquainting Claude with the current circumstances. “After all, it isn’t often that our House Leaders are also the future leaders of Fódlan.”

It was a statement that managed to take Claude by surprise, though it didn’t at all show in his expression. He smiled with an almost placid amusement; his eyes reflected nothing of his thoughts in a manner that seemed to betray the way he smiled. “Future leaders? It sounds like I’ll be meeting a prince and princess very soon.”

“Indeed! It’s truly a once in a lifetime experience to see all three nations’ future leaders come together in this manner. Quite a twist of fate, I must say.”

“Yeah, I’ll say it’s one heck of a coincidence. Didn’t see it coming when I enrolled, that’s for sure,” He was careful to avoid the agreement that it was anything related to fate. Fate, deities—he didn’t believe in any of it. To believe that the situation was anything more than coincidental seemed a bit foolish to him, but Claude supposed that most in Fódlan really did have that much faith in their goddess. Perhaps more so when right in the center of the holiest and most hallowed grounds on the entire continent.

But it would take a lot more than what appeared to be coincidence to change his view on destiny. 

Fortunately for him, Professor Hanneman paid the statement no mind; he was too enthralled by the sheer concept of it all to even take notice of Claude’s subtly cynical outlook.

“In any case, only two of our leaders have arrived. The last should be here before nightfall tomorrow,” Hanneman offered little in the way of details, but Claude didn’t seem to mind. Nosy as he was—he cared more about prying into the business of the Church rather than seeking a head start on meeting his classmates. Even if he _was_ a bit curious—he figured it was at least more beneficial to finish the tour of the grounds and get a good lay of the land that he’d be living on for the next twelve moons. There would be time to poke and prod at his schoolmates once they were all acquainted—once he could at least have a face and name to associate with the titles they carried.

_“If winter had ended upon his arrival, he was sure that the blossoms of spring were in full bloom when he entered the grand cathedral. It was stunning in its beauty; it brimmed with spirit and history, as if he could feel the divinity from simply stepping past the threshold._

_However, the cathedral itself was not the true sign of divinity. No, there was an even greater blessing, surely sanctioned by the Goddess herself.”_

Hanneman led Claude toward the cathedral—the final stop on the tour of the grounds. Given the importance and weight it carried, he’d felt it best, unaware of his charge’s complete lack of faith.

“This here, is Garreg Mach’s cathedral,” Hanneman began to explain, though before he could say much else, his thought was interrupted by a voice unfamiliar to Claude.

  
“Professor Hanneman, there you are,” It was a young man’s voice, calling out from just beyond the doors; he remained just out of Claude’s line of sight, though he thought little of it all. It was only natural that one of the Academy’s professors, and a renowned researcher would require the attention of others, after all. “It isn’t terribly important, but I did wish to speak with you before the other students from my class arrive.”

“Ah, how convenient,” Hanneman seemed nothing short of delighted at the sound of that voice. He looked to Claude as they stepped further inside. “I believe formal introductions will be in order tomorrow, when all three of you have arrived—but there’s no harm in an early introduction, no?”

“An introduction? Oh, yes. Of course, pardon my manners. I hadn’t realized you were giving someone a tour this afternoon,” The young man apologized in kind. There was the faintest twinge of guilt to his voice, as if apologetic for interrupting. It was curious, to say the least—as far as Claude was concerned, it didn’t seem to be worth an apology, surely when this person likely hadn’t yet even known that Hanneman wasn’t alone.

Given the way the professor seemed intent on an introduction, Claude didn’t hesitate to step through the enormous doorway of the cathedral—and when left face-to-face with the young man who had apologized, he was sure his heart stopped in his chest for at least a moment. 

“Claude, this is Prince Dimitri—heir to the throne of Faerghus, and soon-to-be leader of the Blue Lion House,” Hanneman continued on, heedless of both Claude’s stunned silence and the fact that the young man that called out to him seemed to do so for a reason. “And this, Your Highness, is Claude von Riegan, heir to House Riegan and likewise, soon-to-be leader of the Golden Deer House.”

Claude had barely heard the words of Hanneman’s introduction.. The young man that stood before him was… _stunning_ , really. In an instant, he’d gone from thinking of how to make plans come together and pondering the future of his student life, to being reminded only of a fairy tale that he’d read so often as a child. The young man before him—Dimitri—looked every bit the part of a prince, after all. The imagery of his books flashed through his mind; tall and noble, with the fairest skin and golden blonde hair. Eyes that were a piercing blue, but carried a chivalrous kindness. They were memories long since buried, though the words of that long-memorized tale seemed to flood back into his mind in a manner that made it seem almost tangible. As if he could reach out and grab that storybook he once longed to believe in.

He’d convinced himself that the books were nothing more than fairy tales. Of course, princes existed—but surely, none had really embodied the idealized tales. He had thought this, rather consciously as he edged away from the fantasy of books and grounded himself in the reality of his circumstances. And surely, even the prince before him could not truly be that savior his heart had called out for as a lonely child.

He certainly did look the part, though; charming, dashing—truly like every illustration he could recall. And as he shook himself out of his thoughts to make his proper introduction, he elected to shove those thoughts aside, unaware that his heart had never stopped calling out for that prince. Unaware that the prince before him would one day prove to be every bit the ideal he sought, while also being flawed, human—and with a heart that also called out to end dark, painful loneliness.

As Claude shook off his surprise and finally spoke, he didn’t yet realize that a simple introduction would in fact, be part of a great change—to not just how he viewed the concept of fate, but also to the future of Fódlan itself. “Good to meet you, Your Princeliness. Let’s make this year one to remember, yeah?”

“There’s no need for such formalities, really,” Dimitri’s response came with an amused, albeit somewhat awkward laugh. “Just Dimitri is fine. It’s a pleasure, Claude—I look forward to what we may accomplish as House Leaders together.”

He hadn’t the faintest idea of what the future held. Neither of them could have possibly known that it was indeed a fateful meeting; nor that their hearts would eventually seek solace in one another. They couldn’t possibly know what the Goddess held in store for them, be that hardship or heartbreak, love or romance. But somewhere, buried deep within Claude’s heart remained a boy who sought after a Faerghan prince to be his savior, and a promise that he didn’t consciously know he was making to protect that prince in turn.

_“He didn’t expect that he would find his savior among those carrying out their daily prayer. The young man couldn’t have known either that his savior had been the famed, noble prince of Faerghus, either. His heart swelled, his gratitude truly endless for his life had been saved by a prince. It was on that day, he made an oath to serve that prince until he drew his last breath. They worked side-by-side, and as the years passed…”_

**Author's Note:**

> I definitely originally intended for this to be a lot more intensely DIMICLAUDE, but as ever, I also have no self-control and went off the deep end. So really, it's mostly just filling in the parts of Claude's backstory that canon refused to give us, a few references to later Verdant Moon events and the little glimmers of what will eventually become those two being hopelessly in love. Also featuring me absolutely bs'ing the concept of a fictional story within the story, because why not?


End file.
